


The Dark of the Moon

by A_Farnese



Series: Penumbra [5]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 02:57:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2756978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Farnese/pseuds/A_Farnese
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin is missing, the knights are scattered, and Guinevere has been sent away to save her life. As Arthur's list of allies at court grows thin, Morgause prepares to play her hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dark of the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Merlin and its characters do not belong to me. No money is being made from this.

"This is where our paths separate, Morgana," Morgause reined in her horse as they reached the crossroad. The battered sign had long ago lost its words, a mute thing of weathered gray wood that pointed in either direction. She did not need the sign, though, to tell her where to go. The western road led across the northern reaches of the White Mountains toward the Plains of Denaria, while the northern road stretched out under the eaves of the Wild Wood.

"I thought you were coming with us?" Morgana frowned and urged to horse toward her sister's.

"No. I told you last night I had business with the Dochraid, and the way to her leads down this road, Morgana. You must go on to the Isle of the Blessed. We each have our tasks to complete, and we cannot accomplish them if we stay together." Morgause reached out to rest a hand on Morgana's arm and gave her a reassuring smile. "This is our best time to strike, sister. After you went to sleep last night, I received word from Nynaeve that Arthur is all but alone. His knights are gone, scattered like chaff in the wind, and Merlin is missing."

Hope flared in Morgana's eyes at the last, "Is he dead?"

"I don't know," Morgause shook her head, "But it's best not to assume so until we've seen a body. Until then, we must go on as planned. I will find the means to destroy the Pendragon men, and you will find the way to defeat Merlin."

"But I've never been to the Isle. Are you sure I'll be able to find it?" There was a glimmer of doubt in the younger woman's eyes. Though Morgause had described in detail the ways through the catacombs below the ruined temples of the Isle and the illusions set down to hide the paths, she could not help Morgana through the traps the Priestesses had set before their defeat. After the fall, Camelot's soldiers had looted the Isle, taking what magical artifacts they did not destroy back to languish in the locked vaults below Camelot.

They had not found everything, though. Some illusions had been woven too well for the Pendragon to destroy. A few artifacts remained, Morgause knew. The Goddess had shown her. "You will what you're looking for, sister. The Goddess told me where it was, and She will help you reach it. You must trust in Her. And in yourself. Accolon." She gave the dark eyed man behind Morgana a sharp look. "You will watch over my sister while I am away. And may the Goddess tear you apart if you let any harm come to her."

Always respectful of the Old Ways, Accolon pressed a hand to his chest and half-bowed in the saddle. "You have my word, My Lady. And besides," he looked toward Morgana, a wide smile on his face, "She has my heart, and I could never let any harm come to my heart."

Morgause felt a pang of regret at the melting gaze the two lovers gave each other. There had been a king in her own future, once. And sons. . . . But she had taken the path of greater power. A lonely path. Sometimes, in the dark of the night, in her lonely bed, she wondered if she had chosen correctly, if having children of her own- to teach the Old Ways, to pass her powers on to- would have been the better choice. It was too late now. She had decided to forgo marriage, and Lot had married another. "Be that as it may," Morgause grated, "You are her sworn protector. You know what the Goddess does to oathbreakers." Accolon merely nodded again. "You must go, sweet sister. Night is coming, and we both have far to go."

"Promise me you'll come back to Tintagel when you're done? I can't bear to lose you, Morgause." This time it was Morgana who reached out, her grip tight on her sister's arm.

"I'll do my best, but I cannot promise. My time is growing short, Morgana. We all die someday, and if I am meant to die in service to the Goddess, then I will count myself lucky," Morgause said.

Tears spilled out of Morgana's pale eyes. She brushed them away with a shaking hand.

"Then I'll just have to wish you good luck. The Dochraid is a powerful ally. Surely she'll help to shield you against Uther. And Arthur."

"I'm sure she will. Good luck, Morgana. May the Goddess guide your steps."

"And yours," Morgana forced a wavering smile onto her face.

Morgause's smile was genuine as she wheeled her horse around, looking back at Morgana just once before starting down the road. "Come, Sefa. The day is passing quickly, and we have a long way to travel."

 

* * *

 

 They reached the Dochraid's cave just before nightfall the next day. The path led through fell marshes and twisted stands of oak and hawthorn trees, the land growing ever darker as they traveled until they reached a hill crowned with a decaying hazel tree. At the foot of the hill, a gaping hole yawned before them, wreathed with roots and dying vines. Morgause swept them aside with her staff, ignoring her aching bones that protested her every movement. Days of riding had not eased her pain or aided her health. She felt herself grow weaker by the hour, but a few more steps and a bargain lay at the end of the tunnel. She would hold on until then.

"Sefa," Morgause looked back before she disappeared into the darkness completely, "I may not walk out of here again. If I do not return in three days' time, take the horses and return to Tintagel. Inform your father what has happened. If I fail here, we must not lose everything."

Sefa shrank against her horse's flank, her wide eyes fixed on the priestess, "Will the Dochraid harm you?"

"She may. It may be that she'll refuse to grant my request and let me go in peace. She is a creature of the dark places of this world, and there is no telling what she will decide. Do not fear for me, child. My time is ending, whether the Dochraid speeds it along or not. Now. Do as I say. You father will need to know what happens here, and so will Morgana." Morgause turned and walked into the shadows.

She might have walked for a minute or for a year. The cold darkness pressed against her like an icy tomb, unrelenting as the grave. If not for her staff, she would have fallen a dozen times when the roots wrapped around her feet and pulled at her skirts. Halfway through, she closed her eyes and let her ears guide her. In the black, the shadows and wavering lights her mind conjured were too much of a distraction. Finally, when it seemed she had walked to the center of the world, the passage opened up and a chill breeze tugged at her hair.

A spidery whisper echoed out of the cavern and a dozen glimmering gouts of sickly green faerie fire leapt up in response. A hunched figure shrouded in cobwebs lurched into view, her skeletal fingers scrabbling at the rocks as she turned eyes sewn shut toward the priestess. "Morgause," the Dochraid rasped, "It has been long since you last sought my wisdom. What brings you at this late hour?"

Morgause drew herself as straight as her damaged frame would allow. "Years ago, I swore vengeance on the Pendragon line for destroying our temples on the Isle of the Blessed, for murdering our sisters, for denying the Old Religion. But my strength is failing, and I fear I will die leaving my oath unfulfilled."

"So, Priestess, you wish for me to extend your life, that you may satisfy your oath?"

"No, Great Dochraid. Only the Goddess may do that, and she has not answered my prayers in that way." Morgause bowed her head and stepped into the cavern. "No, what I seek is enough strength to return to Camelot one final time. There is no better time than now. Uther Pendragon has sent his knights into the forest to seek out our kind and finish what he began twenty-five years ago. Arthur's allies are gone, as well. They are as unprotected as they will ever be. Now is the time to strike."

"And are you willing to die for this?"

Morgause sighed. "I am."

"And are you willing to leave your sister to finish your great work?"

"Morgana is strong. She was named High Priestess by the Goddess herself. Her resolve will not waver, and her allies are strong. She will carry on our work as though I stood behind her."

The Dochraid hissed and scuttled toward Morgause. Her grasping hands clutched at the priestess, climbing the length of her body, sliding over bone and curves until she felt naked under the other's sightless scrutiny. One hand rested briefly over her heart, the other over her eyes. Morgause stood still, steeling her will against the touch of the cold, scaly hands that pressed against her skin and seemed to search further, into her mind. For what purpose, Morgause could only guess. "You've the will, and most of the strength. The rest I will loan you for this task. But. . . " The Dochraid sighed again, a wistful note, "There is something else you would have. Something more than an ounce of strength."

The hands lifted away from Morgause's body. She blinked against the tears that sprang into her eyes. "Yes," she breathed, "There is. I was beautiful once. And strong. I would have that beauty restored to me, if only for a night. I would not have my enemies see what I have become. Surely you can grant me this bit of vanity."

"Yesss. . . "one of the hands returned to trace the ruined half of Morgause's face, "Beauty is its own power, and that power was stolen from you by your enemies."

"By Merlin."

"He lives still. But his destruction is not yours to complete. That task is Morgana's," the Dochraid said.

"She goes to find a weapon against him."

"She will find it." The cold fingers trailed across Morgause's lips, and the hag brushed her fingertips across her own lips as though tasting the priestess's intentions. "I will give you your beauty, priestess, but it comes with a cost. As life pays for life, so beauty must pay for beauty."

Morgause nodded. A fair price, for one close to the end of her days. "What is it you want?"

"One day. The memory of one summer's day spent in happiness. That is the price for a day of beauty restored."

"Done." Morgause closed her eyes, thinking back through the summers of her life, searching for just the right memory to give over to the Dochraid, the sort of memory that would be equal payment for her restored beauty. She had once had a face that besotted

kings. . .

_Kings. . ._

The Dochraid's fingertips brushed against Morgause's temples as she remembered.

_A bright summer morning. . . waking in a king's bed. . . silken curtains rustling in the breeze. . . the dawn light off the river. . . down coverlets and feather pillows. . . King Lot asleep beside her. . . waking. . . his lips on hers. . . the two of them coiled together, skin to skin, their hearts beating as one. . . the golden light of the rising sun spilling over two lovers oblivious to the new day. . ._

_Yess. . ._

Morgause jerked away from the Dochraid as the memory faded and finally vanished as the hag's fingers slid off her face. 'It's worth it,' she told herself,'It's worth it.'

The Dochraid shuddered, something like a smile on her ruined face. She sighed. "A day of beauty for a day of beauty. You will have your chance for vengeance, Morgause. My power wanes with the waxing moon, but soon enough it will grow strong again and you shall have your chance at vengeance. At the dark of the moon."

 

* * *

 

 The people's eyes were full of fear. Arthur saw it as he walked up and down the lanes of the market, such as it was with half the stalls empty and the remaining merchants hawking far fewer goods than they had a fortnight before. There were no oranges or honey wine from Nemeth, no fine wool from Mercia, no exotic spices from across the southern seas. All that had gone away once Uther resumed his hunt for sorcery. No merchants wanted to risk their wares or their people to the "mad king's" depredations, and who could blame them? Arthur certainly did not. _'So much for the Golden Summer.'_ He sighed and handed the toymaker a coin in exchange for a little wooden contraption of wheels and string, handing the toy off in turn to George.

He had taken to buying small things for the servants' children, if only to stave off his own boredom and remind him of happier times. Before, when he and Guinevere or Merlin had wandered through a much busier market, he would buy flowers for her or too many pastries for himself, passing the uneaten ones off to Merlin, lest they go to waste.

Guinevere loved the flowers, and getting Merlin to both eat and enjoy his food was always a challenge. Spoiling them now and then had been a pleasure. Now that they were gone, the palace children received his largesse; their squeals of delight at the new toys echoed through the empty hallways, making the place seem almost alive again.

"Sire!" a haggard woman reached toward him from across the counter of her little shop, a familiar place to the prince. She made the best candied chestnuts and pastries in the lower town. But there was something missing today that Arthur could not put his finger on.

"Agnes," he said, giving her a tired smile, "It smells wonderful, as usual. Something seems different, though."

"My Jamie, Sire. He's away visiting m' sister's family. Probably for the winter." Her eyes slipped away from Arthur and landed on George. She gave him a grateful smile, and the servant ducked his head. "It's hard, not seein' him, but it's for the best."

"I'm sure your sister is happy to have him visit. I hope he has a safe journey home in the spring."

"Thank you, Sire. Here," she pressed a packet of chestnuts into his hands, "Take these, my compliments."

"What is this for?"

She smiled and shook her head as though bewildered by something, though there was a knowing look in her eye. "'Tis a beautiful day, Sire, and it's been dark enough of late. You should have something t' brighten your spirits."

"I cannot accept this, Agnes," he held up a hand- the one not holding the chestnuts- to forestall her protests, "Not without paying for it. It's only fair." What were a few bits of copper to the prince of Camelot, after all? He waited until she relented and accepted the coins before saying his farewells and heading on toward the castle.

He shook a few of the candied nuts into his hand before passing the rest of them on to George. Arthur was not in the mood for sweets, and besides, George had earned the minor treat and more. Though Camelot's dungeons were half-full, he had the feeling they would have been filled to overflowing without the servants' efforts to spread the word amongst the commoners. The word being 'hide'. Hide from the mad king, hide from the patrols. Keep your dreamy-eyed children, your cloudy-minded elders, your redheaded girls, and healers, and anyone a bit different out of sight. Take anyone whispered to have the faintest rumors of magic about them and send them far from Camelot, lest a red death find them. Two men had already been sent to the headsman. Four more- Druids, all- awaited the pyre.

If the Golden Summer had faded, there was one lingering benefit: Arthur had been seen with his beloved- a commoner like them- and a now-known sorcerer, and so the people knew he cared, knew that he had their interests in mind, that he knew them as people and not simply as numbers to be dealt with far away in the citadel. It was why he still walked the streets, even now, when his responsibilities had been stripped away. Someone had to give the people hope, even if his own was beginning to wither.

"When is Leon's next report due?"

"Tomorrow," George replied between bites of chestnut. He hastily swallowed and brushed the bits of sweet from his hands. "Or the day after."

"Any word from Longstead or the northern border?"

"Only the last message that they'd arrived in Longstead. From the border, nothing at all." The servant shifted the basket in his hands and hurried to keep up with Arthur. "Though, to be fair, Sire, communication with the northern border has never been terribly reliable."

Arthur nodded tersely, fixing his gaze on the steps into the citadel and doing his best to ignore the pyre the guards were building in the great courtyard. He had argued with his father until his voice was nearly raw to try to keep the men from being executed. All he had managed to accomplish was to be confined within the city walls with the threat of being further restricted if he persisted in his arguments. The perverse thought kept springing up in the prince's mind, to press his luck and see just how far Uther was willing to push his threats- merely to the dungeons, or all the way to the headsman's block?

Common sense told Arthur to hold his tongue.

Common sense had never been his strength.

He threw his chamber window open and looked out across the city, remembering another time his father had confined him and Merlin hatched a mad plan to get them out of the city to rescue Guinevere. It had worked. Mostly. They had found her, anyway, and brought her home safely. But there was no sorcerer-in-hiding to spirit Arthur out of the castle this time. After two weeks with no word from Merlin, the prince was beginning to wonder if the wind that spirited the sorcerer away had saved him at all, or if it had taken him somewhere to die, alone and unaided.

There was a knock at the door. "Come," Arthur said without turning.

"Arthur?" Gaius stepped inside and held the door open for George, who had glanced between the prince and the physician, then quickly gathered up the laundry and fled. Likely, he did not want to overhear whatever secret information might pass between the two. If he did not know a secret, he could not give it away. It seemed logical.

"Gaius." Arthur stepped away from the window and gestured for him to take a seat at the table. "Is there any news?"

"Yes. I received a message from Lancelot this morning." Gaius laid a crumpled, weather-beaten bit of parchment on the table. Arthur picked it up and found a few, brief lines of Lancelot's crabbed handwriting:

_Arthur,_

_Reached the outskirts of Blackheath two days after the dark of the moon. The Sarrum's patrols are heavy across the border. Likely, they will attack soon. Lady Drusilla departed with her entourage this morning and should arrive within the week._

_-Lancelot_

"How long ago was this sent?" Arthur asked.

"No sooner than three days, though I would guess closer to five. I doubt there are many available couriers on the northern borders these days." Gaius tugged at his sleeves and folded his hands on the table. "That would mean that Lady Drusilla will be arriving any day."

"Yes," Arthur nodded and looked out the window again, "I'll have the servants prepare suitable chambers in the guest quarters. Have you had any word from. . . "

"From Merlin?" Arthur nodded again. "No, sire. Not a word." There was a heaviness in the physician's voice that came from not knowing. A fortnight had passed since Leon had returned with that bloodied arrowhead, and there had been no trace of the sorcerer. No matter where Lord Pynell- or Leon- looked, they simply could not find him. There were moments when Arthur was glad of it. No word allowed for the hope that he had disappeared to a place where a friend could take care of him. But at the same time, no word could be a sign that Merlin was indeed dead. "His owl came back last night, and I hoped. . . " Gaius squeezed his eyes shut to gather up the shreds of his composure, "But there was no message. I don't know how much longer my heart can take this."

"I'm sure he's just lying low somewhere, keeping his nose out of danger for once." Arthur crossed the room and laid a hand on the physician's shoulder, offering the old man what comfort he could. "He has some great destiny, after all. He can't fulfill it if he's gone."

The prince remembered the stories his nurses and tutors had told him when he was a child, stories of great deeds and chivalry where the heroes had great destinies before them. He tried not to think too hard on how few of those heroes lived a long life. Most of them died gallantly.

Most of them died young.

"Merlin will find his way home, Gaius. I'm sure of it."

 

* * *

 

_"At the dark of the moon."_

_The thought skittered off his consciousness like a fluttering insect, waking him just enough to see with inner eyes the river of images flowing through his mind. Visions of times and places familiar to him and strange, past and present and future coiling into a tapestry of sounds, sights, and lives that were his and not his, relevant and unrelated, weaving tighter and tighter around him until he was not sure where the visions ended and he began. . ._

_. . . A man and a woman curled together in a tangle of blankets and limbs at the hearth of a humble cottage. Sweat glistened on their faces as they nestled closer, their lips met. They breathed each other in, watched each other's eyes as though no pair of lovers had ever done so before. He whispered her name, 'Hunith. . . '_

_. . . A High Priestess, cloaked in shadows and black silk, stepped across the threshold of the great temple on the Isle of the Blessed. She gestured for the dark-eyed man behind her to wait as she walked through the ruins, her fingers brushing against the broken altar as she passed by. Whispered words revealed a secret staircase winding down and down into the ground and she followed them into the shadows. . ._

_'Where am I?"_

_. . . A spoiled prince in the golden morning sun mocked a dark-haired peasant boy. 'I can take you apart with less than that. . . ' the boy responded to the prince's taunts. Fortunate that he had not followed through on the threat. . ._

_. . . A pale queen in a royal bed, exhausted from the pains of childbirth, looked her newborn son in the eyes and smiled. "Arthur," she whispered before her eyes rolled up and her head lolled onto the pillows, and she faded and bled until she died. . ._

_'When am I?"_

_. . . A great army encamped around a dark stone fortress, their red cloaks bright against the snow. The golden haired king met the black-hearted king to discuss terms of peace that both knew would not be accepted. . ._

_. . . A mother's eyes shone with equal measures of pride and fear as she held her little son close. He has never seen a dragon before, but he sculpted them out of fire and smoke as though raised by them. . ._

_. . . A courtyard full of hostile faces stared at a spectacle with a mob's manic glee before a blast of white-hot flame- Dragonfire- burst in all directions, scoring the dark walls and bringing an army to its knees. . ._

_'Who am I?'_

_. . . Then darkness and pain and fear and the sound of the wind blowing in the trees. . ._

"Stop. That is not for you to see yet."

A hand brushed across his brow, driving the stream of images away, allowing his battered consciousness to retreat and find its anchor in his own mind apart from the well of time that bubbled through him, washing the visions away until they were only strange memories plucked from other lives. The dreams of men and dragons and ravens, all weaving themselves into his memory like stories told long ago. He let himself drift for a while, a bird riding currents of wind and air until he was ready to fall back into himself.

Time passed.

Merlin opened his eyes. A glimmering light shone all around him, the pale blue brightness of thousands upon thousands of crystals embedded in the cold walls of the cave, climbing higher and higher until the ceiling above disappeared in the darkness, its crystals shimmering like stars in a velvet night. Merlin gasped and rolled to his feet, catching his balance on an outcropping of stone. A dull ache in his shoulders reminded him of his injuries, and then even that was forgotten as he realized where he was. "The Crystal Cave."

A rush of fear cut his breath short as he remembered the first time he had been here, when Taliesin appeared to him and beckoned him inside so Merlin might foresee a disaster whose reverberations still shook the land. This had been a hostile place then, its light glowing angry crimson, the very air pressing against him as though it wanted to suffocate. Now it welcomed him in. The light seemed to beckon him further into the cavern. He stepped over a trickle of water flowing away from a pool fed by a half dozen singing waterfalls that set the crystals to ringing as he neared the center. A flood of ethereal music washed through him, just at the stream of images had, beckoning, reminding him of all the joy he had ever known, bidding him forget all the sorrows of his life. He closed his eyes, letting the song of magic ring through him, sweeter than springtime or his love's first kiss. . .

"Merlin."

The familiar voice brought him back into himself, before his mind could dissolve into the ocean of power that was the Crystal Cave. Merlin opened his stubborn eyes. His balance wavered and he leaned against a stone outcropping. 'I was hurt.' He remembered an arrow, falling, hunting dogs. . . 'Pynell shot me in the back.' Merlin looked down at himself at where the arrow had been and ran his fingers along the bones that had broken. They had healed cleanly, and only a jagged white scar remained to show where the arrowhead had punched through flesh. The magic of the Crystal Cave must have healed him while he slept. "How long have I been here?" he asked the air.

The air responded with his father's voice, "You are in the Crystal Cave, Merlin, and here, in the hollow hills, time means little."

Merlin spun about. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of Balinor- or Balinor's shade, limned in the same sapphrine light as the crystals, solid-seeming, yet transparent as morning mist. He looked as he had during the brief time Merlin had known him- strong and proud, yet worn with years of sorrow and loneliness. "Father. How. . . how are you here?"

"A part of me lives within you, Merlin, and when you cried out in need and opened yourself to the will of Fate, the Crystal Cave summoned me from the Land of the Dead. Magic healed you, but without another to keep your spirit anchored within your body, all that you are would have melted away like the last snows of winter."

"For how long?" Merlin hesitated to ask the question. He feared the answer, though he knew that any length of time, be it a moment or a year, was too short.

Balinor smiled sadly, "As you grow stronger, my link to the world weakens. That is the way it is with us, it seems."

Merlin bit his lip to keep his tears at bay, "Then I must say good-bye again? And so soon?"

"There are no true good-byes. I will always be with you, a breath away on the other side of the Veil." The shade appeared next to Merlin, his hands on either side of the warlock's face, forcing him to look into Balinor's eyes. "I wish I could offer you more comfort than this, Merlin. Fate draws you down a path of pain and darkness- more than it has any right to demand of any one man. But remember, even on the darkest of nights, the stars still shine."

Tears blurred Merlin's vision. "But I don't know what I'm supposed to do. Arthur is in danger. . . " he trailed off as his voice cracked.

"You are your father's son, Merlin. A child of the wind and the rain. Magic is within you, and it is you. If you can learn to master your own desires, then you can master the power of the Crystal Cave. Do that, and no darkness can stand against you, Merlin. Emrys. The Bearer of Light." Balinor's smile was warm as his form blurred further.

"It's so hard, sometimes," Merlin whispered. His gaze flicked about the cavern, its enormity made him feel so very small. A breath of cool air swept past him. "Father, I-" he looked back to find that Balinor had vanished, leaving only a few motes of fading light to mark his passage. "I wish you could stay." He bowed his head, the weight of his grief suddenly too much to bear. Then he took a shuddering breath and wiped his tears away before turning to face the Crystal Cave. "What is it you want from me?"

Nothing happened. For a moment, Merlin felt foolish for calling out to it like that, to the Crystal Cave, the source of magic- it was like screaming at the wind to cease its blowing, or commanding a mountain to turn to dust. The quiet stretched on until he thought nothing would happen. He turned to leave, and then he heard it. A faint ringing of crystal sounded in the cavern's shadowed heights, building downward as it grew in strength. The light flared brilliant white, its intensity driving him to his knees. He buried his head in his arms in a vain attempt to block out the brilliance before it burned through him as the ringing grew louder, driving out thought and sense until it seemed he would burst with the power of it. Then all turned to blackness and silence.

Voices echoed out of the darkness. . .

_. . . "Merlin." It was Arthur, his voice holding back an age of grief, his steady hand on the sorcerer's shoulder, "I have hard news. . . "_

_. . . Why. . . ?_

_. . . Guinevere's voice, sweet and sad as she held his callused hands in her own slender ones, "It's bad luck to see the bride before her wedding. . . "_

_. . . but I cannot see you, he replied. . ._

_. . . The sweet-bitter scent of asphodel and forget-me-nots hung heavily in the air as Gaius spoke from a distance, "It was real to her. . . "_

_. . . It was real for us both. . ._

_. . . Candles burned low in their chambers, the scent of smoke wafting through the air as they guttered one by one. "He was worth your tears, Merlin," the king said. . ._

_. . . My tears have run dry. I have none left. . ._

_Those, and a thousand other losses through the slow march of the years, finding joy and love and losing it again and again until he thought he would go mad with it all, but steadily walking forward all the same, toward the faint and flickering glimmer of hope. A name. A symbol. Arthur, the Once and Future King._

Curled up against the weight of his own unnamed sorrows, Merlin heard weeping and knew it was his own. Bitter mourning for all that he had already lost and all he had yet to lose for the sake of the future.

 _"But you don't have to,"_ a quiet voice said _, "Let yourself dissolve into the power of the Crystal Cave, and all this heartbreak and sorrow will never come to pass for you. Your path is one of much suffering, Emrys. But you do not have to walk it. Let yourself go, and be free of all this pain"_

It was tempting. So tempting. . .

_"You can have your heart's desire. . . " the voice urged._

But Albion would never be.

Merlin shook his head. "No," he breathed, "I can't. I am the one who stands between Arthur and the darkness, and without Arthur, the golden age of Albion will never be."

_"Then you would endure an age of suffering for the sake of those who would kill you?"_

"I would," Merlin said, his voice growing stronger, "For the sake of peace. For the sake of freedom. There is no greater cause."

_"And what of your own freedom?"_

He felt tears roll down his cheeks, but said the words anyway. "What is one man's pain compared to the suffering of all?"

Magic sighed, a cool wind that strafed his skin and dried his tears. Somehow, he knew his answer had satisfied it. _"Not one man in ten thousand would answer as you have, Emrys. Rest now. You have much to learn. When you awaken, you will find the answers you seek."_

  

* * *

 

 There was a knock at the door. Arthur sighed and marked the page in his book before setting it aside. "Enter."

They were the guards he had been expecting. "Sire," the first one bowed nervously, "Your father has ordered us to escort you to join him on his balcony to observe the burning."

"I decline." Arthur did not give them a second glance as he paged through the parchments on his desk, a series of copious notes he had written over the past few days.

With nothing else to occupy his time, the prince had taken to reading through the old histories of Camelot, as well as books of law. Merlin had pointed out repeatedly that his education on those subjects was lacking. With plenty of time on his hands now, it had seemed like a good time to start catching up. It was a slow education. The authors were informative but their writing lacked flair and turned even the most exciting tales into a dry recitation of names and dates. They made better bedtime stories than Gaius and Merlin's fantastical tales that he had always taken as superstitious fancy. Until the magical beasts actually appeared to bring excitement to the day. These dusty old books could put him to sleep within a few pages.

"Sire, we've been ordered. . . " The guard spoke again, his voice trailing off at the irate gaze Arthur pinned him with.

"And which of you is going to make me go?" Arthur said, his tone neutral.

"Sire, we were ordered not to return without you." A note of pleading crept into the guard's voice and Arthur almost felt sorry for the man. It could not be an easy thing to be caught between a king and a prince at odds with one another, when the slightest misstep could land a man on the headsman's block.

"Then don't return. Have a seat." The prince gestured to the empty table. The guards eyed it and each other nervously and stayed where they were. "Fine, then. Guard the door, have a staring contest, or whatever you want to do to pass the time. I am not joining my father today. I won't condone the execution of men who have been convicted and condemned without a trial." He let a heavy law book drop a few inches onto the desk, the loud thud underscoring his point. The guards jumped at the sound before taking up positions on either side of the door. Arthur let them be.

He thumbed through the book for a while until his eyes glazed over at the lists and endless nuances of tax and tariff laws, then closed it and poured himself a cup of well-watered wine. It was a royal vintage, from somewhere near the southern border. At its full strength, it was sweet and dry, and worthy of a king's table. Diluted by half and left sitting in a pitcher most of the day, it collected an earthy tang and tasted vaguely of sweat and old grapes. But then, that was the point. Left to his own devices these days, he might have drunk himself into oblivion just to fall asleep at night. George had spotted that habit early on and quietly quashed it, a fact for which Arthur was silently grateful. Bad enough that Camelot's king was half-mad; she did not need a drunkard for a prince, too.

He spun the goblet idly round and around in his fingers, watching the wine's slow spin as he drifted toward the window and drew aside the curtains. In the courtyard below, crowds gathered as ordered to watch the proceedings, though now they did not crowd around the pyre's edge, shout insults, or throw rotten things at the men being led to their deaths. It was a subdued people who stood there today, a people who had grown weary of accusations being flung about and death sentences falling upon them like autumn leaves. 'And if we're not careful, we'll find ourselves amidst a people in revolt."The mutterings had not started yet, but they would if matters continued as they were.

It looked like Uther was not willing to wait for his wayward son to appear at his side before he passed the sentence. His voice already echoed off the walls, declaring the men he condemned to be traitors and evildoers intent on destroying Camelot. Arthur rather thought the people disagreed with their king, but when even the prince could not talk him down, what hope was there for a commoner?

Drumbeats rattled in Arthur's ears as he watched the guards approach the pyre with torches in hand. The four men- Druids all- managed to clasp hands despite the ropes that bound them. Their heads turned up toward the sky, and Arthur saw their lips moving as the first wisps of smoke rose up. Praying, perhaps, for deliverance. Or a quick death. But if their gods answered prayers as readily as Arthur's own did, their ends would be a long time in coming. He could not remember a time when his own prayers had been answered.

Fueled by the dry, heavily oiled wood the fire leapt high, turning to a raging pillar reaching high above the crowd. The chanting turned to raw screams, feral sounds that did not belong in the throats of men. Arthur's grip on the wine goblet tightened; it was almost a surprise he did not bend the cup's stem with the strength of it. The wind shifted, sending smoke and the scent of burning meat toward the prince's window. His stomach threatened to revolt when his imagination perversely put Merlin's voice amongst the Druids' cries. Rebellious knees threatened to either buckle or move him away from the window, but Arthur mastered himself and remained standing. "This is your failure. Never forget it." He refused even to close his eyes.

The animalistic screeching continued unabated; where one stopped, another picked up, and on and on until Arthur thought his bones would break with the effort of standing still.

Then the fire flared with a brilliant white light, and the screams were cut off as one, leaving the courtyard silent save for the roaring fire that had done its work. With the executions- murders- completed, the crowd was free to disperse and go home to whatever use they could make of the rest of the day.

The fire would be allowed to burn itself out into the night, and when the ashes had cooled in the morning, they would be cleared away and dumped into whatever charnel heap seemed appropriate to the poor souls assigned to the task. Sorcerers were not allowed grave markers, after all, and Druids were given even less. Perhaps the men's wives or brothers watched from some secret place, waiting for the burnt bones to be left unattended so they might be gathered up and buried in whatever custom the Druids observed.

Arthur tossed the last of the tasteless wine out the window and slammed the goblet down on the sill. He ignored the guards' startled looks as he stalked toward his desk and sank into the chair. "They say childhood is over when you realize your father is mortal, that he makes mistakes," he said to the ceiling more than the guards, though he had the sense that they were listening. "For so many years, I believed my father when he said magic was evil, that sorcerers wanted to destroy Camelot. And every time some magical creature or sorcerer attacked us, it got that much easier to believe what he was saying. That was the problem. I didn't believe my father because he was in the right. I believed him because it was easier than seeking out the truth.

"But I should have been better than that," he continued, "I was always taught that the path to justice was not an easy one, so why I thought that the question of sorcery should have been so easy, I'll never know. I had to face a lot of hard truths before I realized my father was not in the right. Hatred begets hatred, and many of the threats we've face in the past several years were caused by the persecution we leveled against Druids and the priestesses, and anyone who was a bit different."

Arthur sat up and traced the gilded lettering on the book of laws. The guards' expressions were carefully neutral, and the prince could not blame them for it. He was skirting perilously close to treason with these words. "When I am king, things will be different. We will seek out the truth, not the most convenient answer, and men will be judged by what they do, and not what other, frightened men fear they might do." He dropped his gaze to the book and sighed. With witnesses to his sudden declaration, he had set himself down a hard road. One he could not back away from. But it was the right road.

"Both of you may remain here until your watch is done for the day. My father will not be able to say that you shirked your duty if you're here. If he wants to rant about my being there, he can rage at me as much as he wants. There's no need for you to be in his sights." He glanced out the window, where smoke from the pyre still wafted skyward. "I am not so much my father's son as I used to be."

 

* * *

 

It was late afternoon nearly a week after the burnings that Lady Drusilla and her entourage rode into the main courtyard of Camelot. The news had been sent as soon as they came within sight of the walls, and Arthur was just in time to greet the woman who had been as much of a mother to him as anyone had. She had changed little in the twelve years since he had been Lord Ector's squire, though her golden hair was silver now, the laugh lines had deepened into wrinkles, and the prince stood nearly a full head taller where he had once looked her square in the eye. "My Lady," Arthur greeted her, a genuine smile on his face for the first time in days.

"Arthur Pendragon," she replied, a spark of mischief in her gray eyes as he bent to kiss her hand, "I see that the straw-headed boy who used to run my poor son ragged finally grew up and turned into a prince."

Arthur laughed and took her arm. "I have been accused of that before. The prince part, not the other bit," he admitted. "And who are these lovely young ladies with you?" He nodded toward a group of about a dozen colorfully dressed, but worn-out girls who stood looking dazedly about as the grooms led their horses away. Noble ladies, all of them, but clearly not accustomed to riding long distances if the frazzled state of their hair, the mud on their skirts, and their tired eyes were any indication.

"Ah, yes. Them. Knights' and noblemen's daughters, the lot of them. Their fathers clearly thought the north had grown too dangerous for their liking and thought to send them to court for their protection. That or they wanted an excuse to send them to court to marry them off. Either situation is just as likely. I was just the convenient means of bringing them here." Only Arthur could see her roll her eyes. Drusilla never had cared for the politics of the royal court or how closely said court could resemble a marketplace where young ladies were concerned. "I'm sure the knights of Camelot will rejoice at the news."

"I can think of one in particular," Arthur said. Bedraggled or not, Gwaine would have been thrilled at the thought of this flock, with their flowing skirts and wide eyes. Never mind the bits of leaves in their hair. It would probably increase their appeal. Perhaps the sight would prompt him to bathe more often. "Fortunately for them, he's away up north."

"Fortunately?" Drusilla raised an eyebrow and gave the prince a withering look. "I am charged with preserving their good health and reputations, Arthur. They are pretty little birds, I grant you, but they're sheltered and naive. I'll not stand for your men taking advantage."

"I will inform them of that, My Lady."

"Good. Elayne, come along." She gestured toward a slip of a girl, no more than fifteen or sixteen, all cheekbones and fair hair, her blue eyes widening further as she looked up at Arthur. Her pale cheeks were touched with sunburn from their days of riding, though it served only to make her look even younger than her years. "Arthur, this is my handmaid, Elayne. Her father is a lord- if a minor one- of a little holding called Astalot in the mountains west of Blackheath. She will need lodgings in or near my chambers, and someone to show her the way around. Now. With those introductions finished, let us go inside. We've been more than a week in the saddle, and I for one, am tired of smelling of horse."

"Of course, My Lady," Arthur grinned as he escorted her up the stairway and into the palace. "You came much sooner than we anticipated. Rooms were made ready for you, but not the ones I was planning on. I hope you don't find them to be too uncomfortable."

"Arthur," Drusilla patted his hand as though he were a senile old man, "I know it's been years since you left Blackheath castle, but surely you haven't forgotten how dreary the place can be. All I require is a roof, a bed, a hearth for the cold days, and a window for fresh air. I won't begrudge you the lack of down coverlets and golden chalices. Although," she glanced around at the servants hurrying past them, "I do wonder where your Lord Father is."

"He, ah, had business to attend to and could not be disturbed. I hope I'm not too disappointing." Arthur glanced back at Elayne, who trailed a dozen paces behind, too busy staring at the glory of a common hallway to notice that their conversation was drifting toward dangerous matters.

Drusilla made a satisfied noise. "To be frank, Arthur, I much prefer not meeting your father. We didn't get along when we were young, and all age has managed to do is set us in our ways even more. He only tolerated me because of Ector, and I have a feeling my invitation wasn't rescinded because it would break the rules of propriety too much for even Uther to allow." Arthur cringed at her words. She was right, of course. Refusing to honor- and protect- his bannerman's family was a low even Uther would not sink to. "And I seem to recall a promise of aid, Arthur. Something about two-thousand soldiers going north to bolster my husband's forces? And yet, at no point on our journey south did I see any sign of an army going north. Was Ector confused when he read your letter?"

Arthur bowed his head. "No, My Lady, he was not. My father decided that sending men to Blackheath was not in our kingdom's best interests."

"Oh? And what is in the kingdom's best interest, if not the defense of its borders?"

They arrived at the door to the guest chambers. Arthur opened the door, gestured for Drusilla to enter, and waited for Elayne to hurry in before he answered. Hallways always had too many ears. "He feels that the threat of sorcery is greater than the threat of the Sarrum."

"I see. So shadows and ghosts and a few wandering Druids are more important than a secure border. I understand," Drusilla said archly. "A lord must be able to hold his own keep if he is to be worthy of it, of course. Draw the curtains, please Elayne, and open the windows. It's too fine a day out to keep the place shut so tightly. Unless it's the king's goal to suffocate us with the lack of a breeze." Drusilla paced further into the room and rested her hands on the high back of a chair, her fingers tracing the maze of knotwork carved into the old oak. "The Sarrum is willing to commit the full strength of his army to take Blackheath, Arthur, and if that happens there is nothing to stop him from swarming toward the city of Camelot itself. You know what sort of black heart that man has."

"It was not my decision, My Lady." Arthur found he could not look Drusilla in the eye, knowing what they both knew- that unless one or both of them could convince the King otherwise, Blackheath would fall.

"I know, Arthur," her voice softened, "But it's the truth."

A knock at the door interrupted them. Half a dozen servants filed into the room bearing trunks and locked boxes- Drusilla's clothing and household goods- and several minutes passed in a flurry of activity while they bustled about, moving the trunks, and moving them again until they were arranged to the Lady's satisfaction. Once the details of placement were settled upon, Drusilla shooed the lot of them away, sending Elayne with them so she might learn her way around the palace with its criss-crossing hallways and endless winding stairways. Drusilla shook her head as the door closed behind them,

"That girl. Lovely, sweet, kind. But with barely a thought in her head. Perhaps she'll get her mind out of the clouds someday. Until then," she waved a finger in Arthur's face, "You'll see to it that the lords and knights of this court do not take advantage of her."

"I will." Arthur stared cross-eyed at Drusilla's finger. He had not missed that particular facet of her personality.

"Good. Now. If Camelot's army is engaged in chasing shadows in the woods, why is its Lord Commander not with them? I know you have your indolent tendencies, Arthur, but you never wanted to be left behind when the men were swinging swords about."

"Yes. That." Arthur took a breath to keep his temper in check. "My father was. . . upset to discover that my manservant was a sorcerer, and that I knew about this fact. He decided that said servant must have bewitched me, and that I couldn't be trusted to lead the army against sorcerers. He removed me from command until my servant could be proven dead. Sir Leon leads the men in my place."

Drusilla's eyebrows rose higher with each word. "That was unexpected news. So this servant truly was a sorcerer? This wasn't just another one of your father's paranoid inventions?" Arthur shook his head. "And I take it that your servant managed to escape having his neck trimmed?"

"Yes. He fled Camelot. Lord Pynell chased Merlin to the outskirts of the Broceliande Wood where he disappeared. It's been nearly three weeks, and I don't know if he's alive or dead." The enchanted merlin had come back two nights' past. Arthur had greeted the creature with anticipation, hoping that it carried a message like it had the previous spring, but the only thing in its talons was the bloodied remnants of a crow feather. Letters and reports had quietly gone back and forth between Longstead, the forests where Leon pretended to hunt, and the northern border. But Merlin had sent nothing at all.

"Arthur Pendragon, Prince of Camelot, who once hunted sorcerers as his King's behest. Now he worries over the fate of a servant who uses magic." Arthur looked up at Drusilla. All of her hard edges and irony had fled, leaving behind the sort of smile he only got from Gaius when the physician felt he had made some brilliant decision. He remembered receiving that look only a few times in the years he had lived at Blackheath.

"Is this the part where you tell me that you have magic, or your sister or father did? That some Druid did you a service last week or last year?"

Drusilla laughed. "I know it's hard for you to believe, Arthur, but there was a world before you were born." Her smile took the harsh edge out of her words. "You may not remember it, but on the ridge above Blackheath's south gate, there's a burned out temple of. . . Brighid, or some such. There are so many gods and goddesses of the Old Religion; I can't keep track of them all. Anyway. When I was first married to Ector, that temple housed a handful of that goddess's followers. They kept to themselves, mostly. Healed those who knocked at their doors, helped birth more than a few babes. Their gardens helped keep the castle fed, and on summer evenings you could hear them singing."

Drusilla's smile grew wistful at the memories. "Then your father made his pact, buried your mother, and blamed all of magic for it.

"I don't know what became of those gentle girls, but one day they were gone. The next, your fathers knights rode in and burned their temple to the ground. No more healing, no more gardens, and no more songs on an evening breeze. Just crumbling stone walls to mark where it had been. The Five Kingdoms lost much of their beauty when their kings declared magic to be an evil."

Arthur looked away and set to rearranging a bowl of fruit on the table. One apple had a dark bruise on it. He set it aside to keep it from spoiling the rest. "So much of what I've seen of magic is evil."

"It's not all evil."

"I've figured that out." Arthur pursed his lips as all his cares and the insecurities of the past weeks came bubbling back to the surface. Having Drusilla there, hearing her gently chide him as she had done years ago made him feel like a child again. He spun the bruised apple around and around in his hands. "Everything's been turned upside down this past year. I thought I knew how the world worked. Turns out I was all wrong."

"At least you're man enough to admit it. The same can't be said of your father." Drusilla smiled up at him as she took his arm and led him to the window. It looked westward over the rooftops and gardens of Camelot, the pale stone of the walls reflected the late summer sun in all its dazzling brightness. "Look out there, Arthur. Your kingdom is out there. Your people. Uther might be a dark little cloud, but if you have it in you to admit your mistakes to an old woman, you just might have it in you to shine as bright as the sun."

"Merlin said something like that once."

Drusilla patted his arm. "He sounds like a clever young man. I look forward to meeting him someday."

Arthur smiled in answer, content to soak in the warmth of the sun and borrow some of Drusilla's hope. Outside, the sounds of the city below floated up- merchants hawking their wares in the markets, the horses in the stables, the clash of blunted blades against shields from the practice fields. Somewhere a woman sang, her voice high and clear.

"There's a feast planned in your honor," Arthur said as the last notes of the song died away.

"In my honor? I'm flattered. I half expected your father to deny me food at all. Perhaps prisoner's rations, at the least. But I hear the bakers in Camelot are the finest in all the realms, so perhaps it wouldn't be so bad." Drusilla tried to keep her expression bland, but a smile finally broke through.

"There's a feast planned, anyway. I've declared it to be in your honor, even if no one else does," Arthur smirked.

"We have what we can hold, my boy. Hold tight to what you have." She looked back as the door's latch rattled and Elayne peeked in. "Come in, my dear. There is no reason for you to peer around doorways. If you're going to come into a room, then come in. You're too shiny to lurk in the shadows. Now. Arthur. When is this feast that's not for me?"

"In a couple of weeks," Arthur replied, "At the dark of the moon."

 

* * *

 

_Time moved strangely in the hollow hills. Set apart from the sunlit world, they rested amidst the flow of time, a high mountain refusing to yield to the temporal winds while still, slowly, being worn away by them. Outside in the sunlight, hours blew away and stretched themselves into tattered days, their threads weaving into weeks while the dreamer slept alone in the heart of the Crystal Cave, imagining that only moments passed here and there while visions of all time flickered through his dreaming self, opening the oracle's eye that had been closed for so long._

_The memories of a thousand thousand lives of men wove themselves into Merlin's dream-self- the rise and fall of kingdoms and empires, the slow turn of the years as cultures spread across the lands before fading into memory. He remembered traveling to places he had never been- riding in a caravan across the burning sands of Araby; wandering the exotic markets of Samarkand with their silks and spices and mournful music; praying to the sun among the pillars of Amarna, marching with the army of the King of Qin; stumbling across a city carved into stone walls; galloping at full tilt across the steppes with the warrior women of Sarmatia. All of them lives that were not his own, but had become his because he remembered them- their defeats and triumphs, their failures and their wisdom, joy and pain. All of it became his._

"Emrys."

_The name echoed through his dream, unfamiliar at first, until he finally latched on to his own self and separated it from the alternate lives that floated about him like shimmering autumn leaves._

_"Awaken."_

Merlin opened his eyes and focused on the lights of the crystals above, the pale blue glow providing him an anchor as the memories that were his and not his settled down around him in his mind until he could tell the difference between them and his own life. He pressed fingers against his temples until the ache faded away. "What was that all about?"

_"The wisdom of ages, Emrys. The memories of those who felt the turn of the world and the call of the Crystal Cave."_

"But why give them to me? What am I supposed to do with them? Besides be completely confused." Merlin turned in a slow circle, his gaze probing the darkness for some sign of a physical speaker, but none appeared.

_"As a child of the Earth, a lord of the dragons, and beloved of the stars? You are the greatest that ever was and will be, Emrys. You have great power, but with that power there must be wisdom, else all that you are would be lost in the darkness of what must never be."_

"Well, that was helpful," Merlin muttered. He stepped over a little stream toward a cluster of crystals, shielding his eyes from the brilliance as he walked. "Are you going to tell me what I'm supposed to do next? Or am I supposed to just work it all out from all these memories that aren't mine? Was there some clue I missed in the markets of Samarkand? Something carved into the walls of Amarna?" Merlin threw up his arms in exasperation as the crystals above him dimmed and went black, leaving only the cluster beside him to light the cavern.

"Magic. And dragons," he sighed, "Always telling me I have some great destiny, that there will be some great disaster if I don't do things right, but never telling me the right path to take. Really is maddening sometimes." He winced as the light pulsed brighter. "I suppose," he said, looking up into the darkness, "That this is where you tell me that the future has a thousand paths, and nothing is certain until we step down a particular road, and that everything changes one we've chosen that path. Right?"

The ephemeral voice had nothing to say.

"Of course not. Because this is where you tell me I've come into my own, right? And that I don't need a guide to hold my hand at every step." He turned away from the brilliance of the light. "But a little help getting out of here wouldn't hurt."

_"Time runs away from you, Emrys."_

"Then show me the way out!" He shouted at the darkness.

_"Look."_

"Why? So I can see all the destruction and pain I won't be able to stop? Every time I've looked into the future I have seen disaster, and I've never been able to stop it. What good is knowing about a trap if I'm destined to walk into it, no matter what I do?"

_"Your king needs you."_

"Uther does not need me. Nor is he my king," Merlin grated, speaking the words that he had buried deep ages ago. Treasonous words he could be executed for in the reign of Uther Pendragon. Here, it did not matter what he said, though. Here, he could give voice to the hatred he thought he had buried so long ago.

_"The dark of the moon is nigh, Emrys."_

"If you expect me to save Uther's life again. . . " His hand tightened into a fist but he turned at last, wincing against the intensity of the crystals' light as it burned into his eyes with the brightness of the afternoon sun. "Show me what you mean for me to see," he commanded.

The cave dissolved around him and faded into white for the span of a breath before shadows appeared. Mere lines at first, they grew, spreading out across the brilliance, melding into each other to form shapes that changed into a familiar scene. A royal hall. The royal hall of Camelot, decorated for a feast day. Outside, the stars sparkled brightly in a sky with no moon. Within the hall, the high lords of Camelot had gathered in all their finery. A special occasion, then, given the woman at Uther's left. A woman he did not recognize, but she must have been important, given where she was seated. Arthur was at the king's right, his expression neutral, eyes guarded. Merlin had never seen such a distance between three people sitting at one table before. The revelry continued despite it, though. The nobility seemed determined to enjoy the night in spite of the veiled hostility that shivered between the King and the Prince.

"Arthur," he whispered without thinking. The prince looked so weary, so much older than he had when Merlin had last seen him. How long had he been away? It felt as though only a few days had passed.

A herald called for silence in the room, and all eyes turned toward Uther as he stood, his jeweled chalice raised to declare a toast- to what or whom, Merlin did not know. No one else would, either. The hall's heavy doors flew open as one and gazes snapped around to see a proud woman cloaked in black stride into the room. Her back was straight, her eyes shining with open hatred, her golden hair tumbled down her back. Morgause was both as beautiful- and as powerful- as ever she had been. Then she began casting a spell, the great hall darkening around her as her words wove themselves into the killing spell meant to end the Pendragon line.

And Arthur faced the threat alone, without Merlin there to defend him.

With an effort, Merlin tore his mind away from the vision, his voice low and dangerous. "Take me there."

 

* * *

 

 An air of desperate joy lay over the great hall. Arthur slouched in his seat, absently swirling the last of his wine around and around in the goblet, his eyes on the assembly before him. A hundred or more of Camelot's highest born nobles had gathered for the feast- held in Lady Drusilla's honor after all. Every one of them had put on their happiest faces for the occasion, as though the city was not a dry forest ready to burst into flames at the slightest spark. Arthur knew it. Drusilla knew it. They saw, on their daily walks together, how the people simmered at every new and draconic law the King put into place- for the security of the realm. Even the nobles who never deigned to walk among the commoners sensed the unrest. It seemed the only one who did not know what was happening was Uther himself, blinded as he was to anything that did not involve the persecution of sorcerers.

"May I refill your cup, Sire?" George appeared at his elbow, a jug of wine in hand.

Arthur held the goblet up and let the man fill it halfway. It was only his second cup, but the prince had a feeling he would need his wits about him, if only to keep from saying something ill-advised that would land him in the dungeons for the night. Or longer. "Stay here, George. There are others who can take care of the rest of the flock tonight."

The drab servant took a step back to disappear into the shadow of the prince's chair, a mumbled, "Yes, Sire," on his lips. A smile almost pulled at Arthur's lips. George might have been dull as dirt, but he had been singularly effective at collecting intelligence and dispersing Arthur's wishes to the necessary ears. Without him, Arthur would not have received Guinevere's letters, Leon's reports, communicated with Lancelot, or heard from a dozen and more lords who were turning against Uther's new laws.

Without George, Arthur would never have heard the most disturbing report of all- that the people had not openly rebelled for fear of what Uther would do to their prince. Would a deranged king who saw monsters in every shadow destroy his own son and heir in his search for evil? No one wanted to put the notion to the test.

Arthur downed half his wine in one long pull before setting the goblet on the table with a hollow thud. A dozen seats down, Gaius noticed the motion and offered him a faint smile. The old physician looked even older these days, and no wonder. It was hard enough for Arthur to negotiate his father's whims, even with the protection his royal blood gave him. How much harder was it for Gaius, a one-time sorcerer who had no noble blood or great family name to shield him?

Then there was Merlin. His birds had come, gone, and come back again, but neither owl nor merlin brought messages. Nor had Leon or any of his other knights reported seeing him anywhere. The last word they had had for a month and more was the story Leon brought back after the first hunt- that Merlin, shot in the back and broken by his fall, had been set upon by dogs before vanishing into the air. " _One word, Merlin. Just one word so we'd know."_ He sighed and dragged a hand over his eyes, wishing he could just retire for the night and forget this whole sordid affair. But no. He was the Crown Prince of Camelot and even in these dark times, he was expected to maintain the royal hospitality, even if what he really wanted to do was send the gilded assembly away, drink himself into an unsteady oblivion, and sleep for the next five years.

He caught a glimpse of bright yellow at the edge of his vision and glanced over to find Elayne whispering some droll comment into Drusilla's ear as she refilled her mistress's wine. The Lady's lips twitched as she held back a smile, and Arthur almost smiled when he caught Elayne's eye. The girl might not have the sharpest wit in the kingdom, but if she could make her lady smile at all on such a night, then she was worth her weight in gold.

Arthur sat back again, his thoughts wandering far from the shallow spectacle before him, and he wondered what sort of commentary Merlin would have offered tonight. Much as he hated to admit it, the prince had always found the sorcerer's comments amusing.

Sometimes they were they only thing that got him through these feasts, when he would rather be anywhere else.

_"Arthur."_

The voice was soft, as though spoken next to his ear, but Arthur saw no one there when he turned to look. Only George was there, jug of wine at the ready, a confused expression appearing on his face when he noticed the prince's scrutiny. "Sire? Do you need anything?"

"No, George. I thought. . . I thought I heard something. It's nothing." Nothing at all. It had only sounded like Merlin. Weeks of fatigue and loneliness were taking their toll. His mind was starting to play tricks on him. He would speak to Gaius about it in the morning. There was no chance that Merlin was actually there. As stupidly loyal as the man could be, even he was not foolish enough to appear at Uther Pendragon's court.

A herald in too-bright livery shuffled forward. The feather in his hat bobbled wildly with every step, prompting fits of laughter even as he called for silence. He finally managed to raise his voice above the din, the voices falling quiet. "Pray silence for His Majesty, the King."

Uther rose and the assembly stood with him, the squeaking and scraping of chairs echoed in the quiet that followed. "My Lords, My Ladies, we have gathered here this evening for a dual purpose. First, to honor the arrival of Lady Drusilla of Blackheath, whose husband, Lord Ector, has always been a stalwart ally to the Throne of Camelot. Even now, he leads his forces to victory against the vile raiding parties ordered by the Sarrum of Amata." There was the sound of whispering and shuffling at that, a veiled insult to the Lady, and a refusal to acknowledge the truth of how thinly spread were Camelot's defenses in the north. But if anyone was foolish enough to speak louder than a whisper, they could not hear it at the head table. Drusilla smiled thinly as Uther nodded to her and raised his cup, "To our friends from Blackheath."

"To Blackheath."

"And secondly," Uther said, "To celebrate the continuation of the cleansing of our lands of the poison that is sorcery." No whispers remarked upon this second declaration. Arthur went still, noting the eyes that flicked toward him. "For twenty-five years, we have been at near constant war with these depraved creatures that would destroy the peace and security that are so dear to us. It is my promise to you now, that the dark forces of magic will never again threaten this realm."

The flew open in answer, their thunderous crash prompting screams and shouts of alarm as a slender figure in black strode into the hall, her hair a river of bright gold down her back. Morgause looked unchanged from the previous year, when she and Morgana had tried- and failed- to usurp the throne.

"Uther Pendragon," she purred as she reached the center of the room, between the two long tables where everyone could see her. She cast a careless glance back at a pair of guards brave enough to rush her. Her eyes flashed gold and the two men went flying. "Did you really think that sending a few of your knights into the woods to burn down some huts would truly rid the world of magic? You are as foolish now as you ever were. You cannot destroy magic. It is part of this world, as much as the air above and the stone below. And no matter how hard you try, even you cannot banish the old gods."

Arthur felt more than saw the darkness pressing at the edges of his vision as Morgause raised her hands, "Isn't it ironic, Great King," her words dripped sarcasm, "That in the very moment you promise your people they will never again be attacked by magic, a sorceress arrives you kill you?" Her smile was cold as she brought her hands to the level of her eyes, summoning the darkness closer as she began to chant:

 _"In niht tungolbære_  
 _In sé rýne móna_  
 _Ic bebeodan þisne sweartung  
_ _abradwian þás Pendragons!"_

The panicking nobles cried out, but their voices seemed distant to the prince, as though his head were underwater. Dimly, he saw Uther stagger back, clutching his head as he fell. Then Arthur could think of nothing but the spike of pain behind his own eyes and the red tinge that fell over his vision. He felt a gust of wind as he dropped to his knees and saw a flash of brilliant white light. Then darkness overwhelmed him, and he knew nothing more.

 

* * *

 

 The journey to Camelot happened in the blink of an eye. Or it might have taken days. Afterwards, Merlin was never sure of how long it took, only that in one breath he was in the Crystal Cave, and the next he was in the great hall of Camelot. Morgause stood in front of him when he opened his eyes, her hair blowing in the wind of his arrival. There was a feral glint in her eyes as she pulled the darkness around them. He felt the Goddess in that cold gloom, felt Her pour through Morgause like a river of cold hatred that flowed toward two targets- Arthur and the King.

Morgause's eyes widened at his appearance. Her hold on the magic wavered. She hissed it back under control, but in the few seconds it took Merlin knew what he needed to do. Her strength was borrowed and, given enough time, her control over it would fail and destroy the spell. All he had to do was buy a few moments. He stepped forward, caught both her wrists, and pulled her outside of time.

Around them, the dinner guests stopped in mid-motion, mouths open to begin crying out for help or in fear as they began to scatter or shield each other from the witch's attack. A single guard was paused mid-stride, his sword half out of its scabbard, his eyes fixed on the witch in front of him. It was a comfort to know that if he failed, someone would be there to stop Morgause. If the warlock ended his life as a mere distraction so a random guard might save Arthur, then the effort was worth it.

Merlin reflexively released Morgause's wrists. The Goddess's dark magic crackled between them, making a target of Merlin when it could not move out of the protective circle of stilled time. The power of it crackled through his veins like lightning and drove him to his knees, his vision graying.

 _"Gestillan!_ " Morgause cried, and the flow of magic halted. Merlin gasped as the current of energy stopped. He blinked his swimming vision back into focus and looked up at the witch. "What have you done?" she hissed.

"You will not harm Arthur. Not while I'm alive." He pushed to his feet, preparing himself to face whatever spells she might throw at him.

"That can be remedied," she said, whipping one hand forward to throw a ball of fire at him.

Even across that short distance, Merlin was ready for it, deflecting the flame into a harmless puff of smoke. His strange education in the Crystal Cave had not been for nothing. "Why are you so intent on this vengeance, Morgause?" he asked her, "Arthur is not his father. He's changed. He no longer believes that all magic is evil. End this, and we can work together to restore what was lost."

Morgause's eyes filled with pity and, strangely enough, regret. "You have such a misguided faith in your Prince. But pretty words won't bring back my sisters or rebuild the Isle of the Blessed. All of that is gone. It can never be the way it was." She let out a breathless laugh, "I could almost say that you caused this, Merlin. You nearly killed me last year. You should have finished what you started. My life is spent. I did not come here for vengeance. I came here to clear the path for Morgana. I came here to die. Even if I survive this night, I am not long for this world."

Merlin looked into her eyes and saw the truth in them. There was nothing left of the proud High Priestess, just a weary woman with nothing left to lose. No. . . There was something else, something he had seen in Arthur's eyes countless times- a soldier's grim determination to succeed when everything had turned against him, pushing past any pain or exhaustion he felt, past any sense of reason that would keep him from doing whatever mad thing was in his mind. Most every time, it had ended in victory. Too often, that victory came at a terrible cost.

As that thought flickered through his mind, Merlin saw something else appear in Morgause's eyes. Darkness began to spread through them like ink dropped into water as the witch abandoned her own self and opened her soul to the Goddess. Blackness filled her eyes and subtle changes worked across her body. Her shoulders straightened, and Morgause's haughty beauty shifted, sharpening the planes of her face and smoothing away the lines of age and care until the figure before him could hardly be called 'Morgause'. She could hardly be called human. All trace of mortal concerns- love, loyalty, ambition- were swept away, replaced by a beauty resembling nothing so much as the cold darkness between the stars. Remote, infinite, and- to one of his nature- nearly impossible to look away from.

 _"Emrys,_ " Her voice rang in his head, a sweet, clear note, and suddenly She was next to him. Cool fingers brushed against his cheeks, turning his face so he could not look away from her eyes. _"Why must we be enemies? Our desires are the same. We both seek freedom. Freedom for ourselves, and for our people."_

 The cloying scent of asphodel blended with the sharp tang of winter filled the air, drowning his senses in the Goddess's overwhelming presence and sending his thoughts spinning. She pressed her lips against his. He nearly lost himself in the rush. _"Our strengths complement each other, Emrys. Why should we not be friends?"_ Her fingertips brushed his eyelids. He swayed drunkenly and opened his eyes, seeing nothing but Her eyes staring back at him, their color changing, changing until. . . _"I can bring you anything. Even your heart's desire."_

 "Freya. . . ?" he whispered, though something fluttered against the back of his mind.

 _"Your love waits beside me, at my right hand. She waits for you. . . ._ " She pressed against him, her fingers running through his hair as she kissed him again, stealing his breath away. _"Join me. . . "_ Oblivion pressed at the edges of his awareness.

 _"Merlin."_ A different voice cut through the icy fog, a voice of fire and stone that offered steady ground against the Goddess's wiles. _"You are not hers. Remember what you are."_

 He remembered sunlight. Trees in the summer, their branches thick with leaves and flowers. His mother's smile. The lights of Camelot shimmering on a winter's night. The heft of a dragon-forged sword as he plunged it into the stone to await its rightful wielder. The knights. Guinevere. Arthur. . .

"No!" Merlin shoved Her back, burning her spells away with the heat of Dragonfire. "Freya rests in Avalon, in the Hollow Hills far from your realms. She is beyond your power. And so am I."

She stepped back to the edge of the circle, her skirts swirling elegantly around her as she drew herself upright. Beyond her, the people of Camelot still moved slowly, like flies trapped in honey, though Merlin and the Goddess's channel were the ones caught outside of time. _"You could have had power beyond your wildest imaginings, Emrys. But if death is what you wish for, then I will grant it to you."_

A moment before he panicked, Merlin's thoughts crystallized. _'Morgause was just a channel before. If she could do it, maybe I can, too'._ Perhaps he would not have to die to protect Arthur after all. As Her hands came up to cast, he dropped to his knees, raising his right hand to catch whatever power She threw at him.

She misunderstood the gesture, Her red lips parting in a feral smile, _"Do you think begging will save you, Emrys? I will burn you into dust, and without you Camelot will fall."_

 Merlin planted his left hand firmly against the stone floor as though pushed down by the weight of Her regard. He raised his head to look Her in the eye. "You'll have to kill me first," he said. And smiled.

She tilted her head in curiosity at his odd behavior, the way a cat might as a mouse crept into its field of view. She brushed it away and stretched claw-like fingers toward him. _"Then die."_

The full force of Her power slammed into him, an ocean wave that threatened to wash him into oblivion, burning through him like white fire. He could not hear his own scream. Instead, he felt it tear out of his throat until there was no air left in his lungs. Merlin gasped, felt the cold stone under his hand, and remembered what needed to be done. A shifting of thought and power helped him catch the flow of Her magic in his right hand, directing it through himself, and then out through his left hand into the castle stone. Down he pushed it. Down and down, through catacombs and caves and into the earth that had felt such bursts of power and more, accepting it and dissipating it with the unchanging calm of living stone, spreading the power out until it was no more threatening than a breath of wind against ancient mountains.

Outside of time, held upright by the architecture of his own bones, all Merlin needed to do was hold himself open, a floodgate to keep the Goddess's power at bay until Her mortal host could no longer bear the strain. And hold it he did, though his vision flamed into whiteness and every fiber of his being burned with the effort. Far away, he heard a woman scream, the note holding and holding until it and the river of power stopped in the same moment.

Silence fell. Merlin heard a body fall to the ground. He was not sure if it was his own or Morgause's. The flow of time surged forward again, and the cries of shock and the clattering of weapons took the place of the roaring power, though they were muted and far away. Dizziness overwhelmed him and turned to darkness.

 

* * *

 

 Cool stone against his face woke Merlin. Only a moment had passed. He heard men shouting orders while others cried out or wept in the wake of Morgause's attack and sudden fall. She was dead; he saw her lying in the middle of the floor, her eyes wide open and lips pulled back in a dying snarl. He sighed- in relief, maybe, he was not sure- and closed his eyes again, letting the stone's coolness soak into his aching head before gathering strength from some forgotten reservoir within to push himself upright.

One clarion thought rang in his head: _"Arthur."_ Hands grabbed at him as he staggered toward the head table, but he shook them off as though they were ghosts. He caught glimpses of the chaos in the hall, did his best to avoid people and fallen dishes until he came around the royal table. An overturned chair caught his legs, bringing him down in a tangle of dizzied warlock and fine furniture. A pair of steady hands caught his arms and helped him back to his feet. Merlin looked up to find George staring wide-eyed back at him. "Arthur," he breathed.

"He's here," George's voice trembled as he led Merlin the final steps to the Prince's side and guided him down as the warlock all but collapsed next to Arthur.

He lay on his side, eyes closed, his breathing rapid and shallow. Otherwise, nothing seemed to be wrong with him now that Morgause's spell was ended. "Arthur?" He shook the Prince's shoulder, earning a groan in a process, but he did not waken. Merlin rested a hand on Arthur's forehead to see if any dark magic lingered and chased away what he found. Then he passed what little energy he could spare to his Prince and sat back heavily, spent. He tasted blood in the back of his throat.

Guards moved the table away and cleared the chairs to give the servants the space to attend upon the royal family. If anyone objected to Merlin's presence at Arthur's side, they said nothing. They were too busy seeing to the King. He looked over to where Uther had fallen, saw a silver-haired noblewoman press her fingers against his throat in search of a heartbeat. She paused, and her slender frame went still. With a swift but careful motion, she closed Uther's staring eyes. She looked up at Merlin as though she felt the weight of his gaze on her and shook her head. He did not have to ask the question.

 _"Uther is dead."_ He shivered, feeling strangely distant from himself as he turned the thought around in his head. He had waited for this moment for so long, but now that Morgause's plan had finally come to fruition- if only half-completed- Merlin felt nothing but weary. There was a wetness on his face like tears, but his fingertips came away red with blood. A faint spark of hope burst to life in his mind then. A feeling that came from without, as on the day Uther had condemned him to death, and even though he was too tired to stand, he dragged himself to his feet and helped George pull Arthur up, too.

"Merlin?" Arthur asked quietly, his eyes full of confusion, relief, concern. And maybe a little fear. He rested a hand on Merlin's shoulder as the warlock swayed. "Will you be all right?"

He nodded, searching Arthur's eyes for any sign that he knew his father was dead. There was none. _"He doesn't know yet. . . "_ Merlin felt every the weight of every gaze fall on them. He shivered, felt a growing tension within himself finally snap, and he knew what needed to be said. Destiny was speaking through him once again, but this time Merlin was glad to let it. He took half a step back, dropped to a knee, and bowed his head- for once with the proper respect due a King.

"The King is dead," his voice rang out through the hall, silencing the buzzing whispers around them, "Long live the King."

 

* * *

 

 "Merlin?" He opened his eyes to find Gaius looking down at him, concern writ plainly on the physician's face. He gave his mentor a tired smile in return, and some of the worry faded. "What happened? I tried to find you in the great hall after Arthur left with the council, but I couldn't find you anywhere. No one knew where you'd gone."

"It was loud in there. And bright. Made my head hurt." Merlin sank back against the alcove's wall. The stone was cool and helped ease his aching head; the fresh air and darkness helped. He almost felt like half himself again. He heard Gaius sit down next to him and winced when the physician took his chin in hand, turning his head to take a look.

"I stopped Morgause from killing Arthur. I wasn't quite in time to save Uther," Merlin said, wincing as Gaius poked at the bloody tear tracks on his face. He had caught a glimpse of himself in a window he had passed and found that his nose and eyes were bleeding, though it seemed to have stopped.

"And how are we feeling about that?"

Merlin pried an eye open and peered up at the physician. Gaius was giving him that look, with the cocked eyebrow and the knowing glint in his eye that clearly said, 'Don't bother lying to me. I'll know if you do.' He sighed and rested his head against the wall. "I don't know yet. Part of me regrets that it was at Morgause's hand. It just gives the council more fuel to denounce magic. At the same time, this is. . . a moment Destiny has been waiting for, isn't it?"

Gaius's expression verged on the disapproving. "I'm not sorry he's dead, Gaius. Uther had a lot to answer for,” Merlin said. “And there never could have been peace while he lived. What happened tonight. . . happened. Uther is dead, Arthur will take his place on the throne, and Albion will have its chance to blossom."

"You should never rejoice at the death of an enemy, Merlin."

It was the student's turn to level a disappointed look at the teacher. "I am not Morgana, Gaius, to celebrate a man's death or lord my powers over weaker men. I thought you knew me better than that. I'm not rejoicing because Uther is dead. But Albion could never be united while he lived. Only Arthur can do that. What happened to Uther- and to Morgause- was regrettable, but it had to be. For the sake of Camelot. And Albion."

Gaius's gaze was steady, but Merlin saw a sense of loss in the old man's eyes and in the sag of his shoulders. "What happened to the foolish boy who stumbled into my chambers all those years ago?"

Merlin's answering smile was sad, "He grew up, and learned the meaning of duty."

Though he had only a score of years to his name, how could he ever feel young again? His experiences in the Crystal Cave had marked him, given him the wisdom of a thousand lives, and showed him that darkness and despair lay down his own path. Only children saw a world without sadness. "Arthur belongs to the realm, but I was always Arthur's. Whatever happens to me. . . happens. As long as Arthur is safe, it doesn't matter."

"Merlin. . . " Gaius wanted to contradict his student, but he knew Merlin spoke the truth. The truth as Merlin saw it, anyway. He nodded and let the matter drop. "Come along, then. You look a mess. And what happened to your hands?" The physician cradled one of Merlin's hands in his own, seeing the angry red skin and blisters for the first time.

"Morgause was channeling the power of the Triple Goddess. I had to buy enough time for her strength to fail, so I pulled her outside of Time. When Morgause saw that she couldn't beat me with her own powers, she let the Goddess inhabit her body. I ended up channeling the Goddess's power through the stones and into the earth." Merlin examined his own hands in surprise. He had not felt the pain of his burns until now. "But there was only so long Morgause's physical form could hold such power. When she died, the Goddess was shut back out."

Long experience at handling injuries kept Gaius from clutching Merlin's hand as his explanation ended, but Merlin felt the older man's shock anyway. "You say that like it's nothing, Merlin, but to channel the Goddess?"

"It wasn't comfortable. But it was that or let her kill me on the spot."

Gaius shook his head, a smile pulling at his lips. "Well. If I needed a sign that you have moved far beyond anything I can teach you about magic, this was it." He took Merlin's elbow and guided the younger man up. "Let's go back to our chambers. I need to see to those burns, and you need to get cleaned up if you're going to attend on Arthur still tonight. I know I'm not going to talk you out of that. He'll be shut up with the council for a while yet, though, so you have a little time."

"A little," Merlin smiled and gently rested a hand on his mentor's shoulder, "Thank you, Gaius. For everything."

 

* * *

 

 It was just after midnight when the council members finally stopped their chattering and let Arthur confront his grief for the first time. The great hall had been cleared of guests, dinner, and furnishings. His father's body lay on a lonely bier in the center of the room, a crown upon his head and a sword in his folded hands. From here, in the torchlight, Uther looked at peace. The servants had done well, given the circumstances, though the decay of death was already at work; there was nothing of his father's living presence in the sunken cheeks and eyes. Arthur clenched his jaw and let out a shaky breath. _"I wasn't ready for this. Not yet, despite everything. . ."_

 "Arthur?"

He started and looked back, finding a familiar figure emerging from the shadows of the stairway. "Merlin." The sorcerer looked awful still, though better than earlier, after Morgause's attack. The trails of blood under his nose and eyes were gone, though the whites of his eyes were still bright red, making a stark contrast for the blue irises. His hands were bandaged, too, as though they had been burned, and dark shadows lay under his eyes. Arthur opened his mouth to speak again, but could find no words.

They regarded each other for a quiet moment before Merlin smirked. "You look terrible."

Arthur chuckled in spite of himself, "Says the man who was bleeding from the eyes not so long ago." His smile faded as he looked back into the great hall. "You know you upset the council when you proclaimed me King. You weren't supposed to do that."

"I didn't. Destiny did," Merlin's eyes shone with that wise confidence that Arthur had missed for so long.

"That doesn't make any sense."

"No, it doesn't," Merlin said simply.

"You never have made any sense. I suppose you never will." He looked away again as a dozen conflicting emotions welled up within, feelings he did not know how to deal with. Everyone had always told him to shut up and be a man, and that no one was worth his tears. Advice he had passed on to all his men- even Merlin. But now his father was dead. A tyrant was dead. He did not know if he was supposed to weep for his own loss, celebrate the beginning of his own reign as King, shout for joy at his friend's safe return, or bolt in terror at the thought of the awesome responsibility that was about to fall on his head. . .

He settled for wrapping Merlin in a fierce hug, noting that he had caught his servant off guard for once as the sorcerer started in surprise before returning the gesture. He held there just long enough to find his mental balance then broke and turned away. "Don't ever do that to me again," he said roughly.

"What? Don't save your life again?" Arthur could practically hear the smile on Merlin's face.

"I thought you were dead. For over a month there was no word, and all we knew was what Leon told us- that Pynell put an arrow in your back, set his dogs on you, and you disappeared. Then not a word from you, Merlin. Not a single word." Arthur stopped before his voice could break.

"I'm sorry, Arthur. Where I went- in the Crystal Cave. . . Time doesn't flow there the way it does here. To me, it felt like a few days had passed and even then, I wasn't really aware of the world. If I had known, I would have sent word. Believe me. I never meant to cause you hurt."

Arthur nodded and let it go at that. Whatever Merlin had gone through, wherever he had been all those weeks, now was not the time to speak of it. "My father is dead."

"Yes."

"He was a tyrant," Arthur said.

"Yes."

Arthur fixed his gaze on his father's face. "He taught me so many things," he breathed. "But he failed me in so many ways, too."

"I think. . . " Merlin trailed off as he searched for the right words, "I think all our fathers fail us in some way. Sometimes they redeem themselves and sometimes. . . they don't. But right now- what this is for, Arthur, is not for your father. It's for you. Tonight, find what peace you can with his memory. Tomorrow you will be crowned King, and your people will need you."

Arthur nodded and glanced over his shoulder. "And you'll stay here all night?"

"Yes," Merlin smiled again.

"Why?"

An expression of immeasurable loss crossed the sorcerer's face. Arthur imagined it was mirrored on his own. "Because I know what it is to lose a father," Merlin replied.

"He would have had you executed," he said after a long pause. Merlin nodded. "You must have hated him."

It was Merlin who finally looked away. "When I first came to Camelot, yes. But as time passed, I learned more about him, and magic. And you. Eventually that hatred turned to pity. Uther was so blinded by grief and his desire for revenge that he closed himself off to so many good things in the world. Even you, at the end."

 _'A sorcerer pitying a King,'_ Arthur mused, _'And I don't even think the sorcerer was in the wrong for seeing things that way.'_ He rested a hand on the doorway and steeled himself to face the long night ahead. "You'll still be here in the morning?"

"I will. I promise."

Arthur took a long breath, stepped forward, then paused and looked back at his servant- his friend. "Thank you, Merlin. For everything."

 

* * *

 

 Camelot could not crown a new king until the old one was buried, and so the people laid Uther to rest in the morning in a ceremony where few shed tears for the tyrant. In the afternoon, in the great hall's golden light, Arthur was crowned King.

Merlin watched the ceremony from a side gallery- out of sight and out of mind for the gathering. The whisperings had begun soon enough, the whispering and sidelong glances whenever he entered a room. For a time, he pretended that he was imagining things during the hasty preparations for the upcoming coronation, but in the brief hours that Arthur had returned to his chambers to rest George confirmed what, deep down, Merlin already knew. While some of the nobles and some of the common folk were unconcerned with his sorcery, others feared or hated him for it. Many of those who hated him had the loudest voices at council; Pynell, for example, would not return to his lands while he held a seat on the Privy Council.

So they agreed, Merlin and George did, that George would be the one to wait upon Arthur in public functions. Including the coronation. It was a pity, really. Merlin had waited for this day for so long, worked so hard, and now that it had come, he was pushed to the side. An unwanted addition to be cast away by those who feared what he was.

Merlin refused to let it bother him. Not on this day, with the golden light streaming through the windows as Arthur recited the oaths of Kingship and Geoffrey of Monmouth placed the crown on his head. On this day, nothing could stifle the warlock's high spirits, the excited tremors rattling his frame, or the lightness of his heart as Arthur stood and turned to face his people for the first time as King, and the assembly cried out, "Long live the King!" so loudly that Merlin could hardly hear his own voice in the tumult.

No, nothing could dampen his spirits this day. Not the suspicious glances, the whispers, or the gestures to ward away evil when he came into sight. He did not have to endure them for long. After the ceremony, he and George had helped Arthur out of the coronation cloak and the heavy robes of state into something befitting a festival- finely woven linen and silk brocade, calfskin trousers, and tall boots inlaid with the dragon sigil of Camelot on the sides. For once, Arthur projected the sort of majesty that a King should instead of the slightly shabby Prince Merlin always teased him about being. He caught the sorcerer smirking about it after George left on some minor errand. "What?"

"Oh, nothing," Merlin replied as he folded some of the ceremonial garb back into their paper wrappings. "It's just that you finally look like a royal instead of something the cat dragged in."

Arthur rolled his eyes and flung himself into the chair behind his desk. "If I've been shabby until now, it's your own fault. I'm not the one in charge of my wardrobe. Besides. I'm not the only one who has to pay attention to fashion now. If a King can't go around look like something the cat dragged in, his servant certainly can't go around looking like something said cat hacked up."

Merlin's fading smile sparked back to life for a moment, and then disappeared again. He smoothed the wrappings down into an ornamental box before closing and locking it. "You know I can't go on like before. Not now that everyone knows what I am. Most of the council was chosen by your father, and most of them hate magic. A knife in the back is the best I could hope for from some of them."

"That's something I intend to change. If a King can't trust his Privy Council, then how can he get anything done at all?"

"You don't trust your councilmen?" Merlin asked.

"I trust them to work in their own best interest. But I need men who will act in Camelot's best interests." Arthur rubbed his eyes. The stresses of the past day and his lack of sleep were beginning to show. "You'll be at the feast, anyway," he said it like an order, not a request. "I want one person there I can tolerate."

"That's hardly kind to Gaius or the Lady Drusilla."

Arthur shot him a glare. "I suppose this means I'm going to have to put up with George all night, then?" The King was not quite whining. "I swear, if I hear another joke about brass I'm going to throw myself out a window."

"And who would rule Camelot in your stead?" Merlin asked as he whisked the curtains shut on the darkening skies beyond them.

"You. As just punishment for setting George on me." Arthur sighed and refrained from running a hand through his hair as he stood. "I suppose we'd better get on with it, then. Everyone will be waiting for me. Are you sure you won't go?"

Merlin shrugged, an impish smile playing about his lips, "If I have to keep you from throwing yourself out a window, then yes. I haven't spent all this time saving your life for nothing. Might even be fun to be the specter at the feast." He glanced back at the windows, where a breeze revealed the deepening evening. "But there is something I have to do tonight. For my own kind. . . " He trailed off, the silence lengthening between them. When he finally looked back, Arthur was watching him, not with a look of understanding, but one of trust. Merlin realized he knew the thoughts that lay behind that look- that his King might never truly understand the forces that drove his servant, but he was willing to trust Merlin to pay his dues to the Old Religion and then come home again.

"Come on. We have a celebration to endure." Arthur spun on a heel and walked out of the room without looking back, fully expecting Merlin to follow. As always, Merlin followed his King.

 

* * *

 

After the brilliance and pageantry, the lights and music and overflowing food that went along with a royal celebration of any kind, the peace of the forest was a welcome change. Here, only the stream laughed at Merlin, and the nightingale's song was sweeter than any troubadour's was. If his errand had not been such a lonely one, he might have enjoyed the night air. But he could take little pleasure in anything until his task was done. And maybe not even then.

The Temple of Ériu had been one of the first holy places Uther burned during the Great Purge. Only the scorched walls remained, with their suggestions of rooms and windows that had once held brightly colored glass. Vines and tree branches wound around the stones, slowly tearing the temple down even more, and the roof had long since collapsed, leaving it open to the stars above. For once, Merlin did not feel a rush of delight when he looked up toward the heavens. Tonight, the stars were cold and distant, their fire blocked by a Presence he was growing all too familiar with.

He felt Her in the cold breeze that blew through the trees. He heard Her in the voices of the thousands of crows that settled in the branches surrounding the temple.

The Goddess was there, watching him.

A chill ran down Merlin's spine as he forced himself to return to his task, carefully arranging the pale asphodel flowers around Morgause's bier and winding a few into her golden hair to make a crown she could take to the afterlife. It felt strange to honor her like this, the Priestess who had been his mortal enemy for so long. But it felt right, too. In her way, Morgause had been far more devoted to her Goddess than Merlin had ever been to the gods he might call his own. And if there was only one thing he had learned from the Knights of Camelot, it was that honoring one's enemy could help to strengthen the ties between a man and his foe and possibly lead to peace. Besides. Sorcerers in Camelot had been consigned to anonymous graves long enough, and even a witch deserved a proper funeral.

Mindful of the great Presence watching him through the eyes of the vast flock of crows, Merlin carefully folded the shroud over Morgana's face. Her features had withstood the ravages of death more gently than Uther's had. The pallor made the golden hair that much brighter, and the tightening of the skin simply made her look younger.

"I'm sorry it came to this," Merlin whispered, "I wish we could have done things differently. Go with your Goddess, and may you find a better world beyond." He stepped back half a dozen paces.

_"Forbærnan."_

Bright flames leapt up, greedily consuming everything on the bier, wood and flesh alike. Merlin forced himself to watch. It was not the first funeral pyre he had attended, but it was the first for a person he had killed, and he could not help but think of the consequences Morgause's death would have for him. And for Arthur. Morgana, at the least, would surely want revenge, and the Goddess. . .

Well. She was there with him in the temple ruins. He looked up past the flames to the scores of glittering eyes in the branches overhead. "Whatever you're planning to avenge Morgause's death. . . Arthur is innocent. In this, he is innocent. I'm the one to blame. You were there, you know the truth of the matter. Whatever vengeance you're planning, level it against me, not him."

The flames rose higher, twisting into a pillar of light as the crows burst out of the trees and into the ruins, flying in maddening circles around Merlin and the fire. Their rasping caws drowned out the roaring flames, and their passage kicked up a cloud of dust and smoke in their wake. He flung up a hand to shield his eyes, but it did nothing against the birds that buffeted his body. An overwhelming voice sounded in his mind.

_"See."_

Fire filled his vision despite his closed eyes. A world filled with fire, burning brighter and hotter, the flames turning from orange and gold to white, their brilliance washing away anything else he might have remembered seeing and driving him to the ground. He could not tell if he was screaming in his mind alone or if was tearing out of his throat. . .

More crows brushed against him and the great voice returned. _"Hear."_

 The brilliance of the fire turned cold and dark, and the world shrank until it was only Merlin, huddled alone on the forest floor with his head hidden in his arms as everything spun madly about and closed in around him, as though he were being buried alive. The only sound was the winter wind rattling through the empty trees.

And there was nothing else.

 

* * *

 

The first light of dawn breaking through the trees woke Merlin. He opened his bleary eyes to find himself still in the Temple of Ériu- and still alive. He slowly sat up, holding a hand to his aching head while he tried to get his bearings. Everything still spun about, but it was coming to a stop. Slowly.

In front of him, the bier was empty, save for a dusting of wood ash. If he had to hazard a guess, Merlin would say that the Goddess had taken her servant's body elsewhere. He could only pray that he had seen the last of Morgause. As for the rest of the temple. . .

There was no sign of the massive flock of crows that had swarmed him the night before, nor any sign of any nefarious goings-on. Just a stone ruin bathed in a late summer dawn. His horse, Altair, was munching contentedly on some wildflowers.

"You just let me lay here all night, then?" Merlin grumbled at the horse. Altair's ears flicked toward him, but he kept on nibbling at the flowers. He shook his head, wincing at the throbbing that commenced. "I really need to stop that," he said, to himself that time. Thus far, his encounters with the Goddess had gone poorly. Yet, he was still alive. "What do you think she meant by all that? See the fire? Hear the wind in the trees?" He had no answers for that. Neither did the horse. "You know, it's not the first time the sound of wind in the trees has come up. It was in one of my visions in the Crystal Cave. I don't suppose you have any ideas why it might be important?"

Altair looked up as a bumblebee buzzed around his ears, and then shook his head to chase the annoyance away. Merlin chuckled at the timing. "Well," he said, "If you do figure it out, you'll let me know, right?" The horse ignored him again. "Some help you are."

He sighed and pulled himself up, every joint protesting the movement. A few tottering steps took him to Altair's side, and the short walk out of the temple helped loosen his aching muscles enough to get into the saddle. Merlin spared a glance back to the trees where the crows had waited for him last night. "Be at peace," he whispered, "Both of you."

Then he turned Altair and nudged the horse to a quick pace away from the ruins. A new day had dawned. It was time to go home.

 

* * *

 

Arthur woke early. It surprised him. After the past few days and the feast last night, he had expected to sleep as late as anyone else in the city. Given that most of the court had drunk itself to a cheerful stupor last night, that was likely to be late morning at the earliest, and yet the new King was up with the sun and too wide awake to go back to sleep. He lay quietly for awhile, staring at the ceiling before he tossed the blankets aside and rolled to his feet, crossing over to the windows and straightening his bedclothes as he went.

The sun had barely crested the trees when he pulled the curtains aside. The highest towers were lit with a rosy light, and all over birds were singing in the new morning.

He had been King for less than a day, and already he felt the change in the people. The common folk- what he had seen of them- were laughing again. Their celebrations had gone later into the night than the court's had, and Arthur had gone to sleep with the echoes of peasant music in his ears. The nobility were happier, too, as though a great weight had been lifted off their shoulders. "I suppose it has," he mused. A new King and a new regime meant that the people had a chance to start over, in a way, and given the diverging paths that Arthur and Uther had been walking in the past few years, everyone was ready for a fresh start.

Except for most of the Privy Council. Gaius and Geoffery, being the eldest members of council, were the most reasonable ones. Age had worn away rough edges and taught them patience. The rest of them, though. . . They were his father's choices through and through. Rough men, steeped in politics and accustomed to getting what they wanted. Replacing them would be a tricky proposition. Many of them held lands on the borders and if they felt that their new King was betraying them they might just cross those borders, seek aid from his enemies, and return to Camelot in rebellion. And yet he needed to replace most of them in order to move Camelot forward.

One more point of contention between Arthur and the councilmen rode through the courtyard just then. Merlin had returned from whatever task he had appointed himself, for once looking none the worse for it before he disappeared around the corner. "Where will he disappear to next?" Arthur could not help but remember Merlin's words from the day before, that they would not be able to go on as they had before, not when so many of Camelot's most powerful lords hated the sorcerer so much. The King hated to admit it, but his servant was right. If they did not call for Merlin's immediate arrest and execution at their first meeting, Arthur would be surprised. It would continue that way, he knew, until the law was changed, and the law would not change until the council had changed. They were in for a long fight. "But I suppose that's nothing new to him. That's been his life's work." Arthur sighed and flopped down into his desk chair. Hours into his reign, and there was already so much to do.

The heavy signet ring of Camelot lay on the desk before him, the dragon sigil facing him. Newly polished, it shone brightly, even in the dim light. He slipped it onto the first finger of his right hand, wondering at the fit- as though it had been made specifically for him. It would take time to get used to wearing it. Until now, the only embellishment he had ever worn was the chain of his knighthood. So much was changing so fast.

He glanced toward the merlin's perch by the window. Merlin the sorcerer had sent merlin the bird off with a message yesterday. A short letter from Arthur to Guinevere in Longstead, to tell her what had happened, and that it was safe to come home again. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to have her back, safe in his arms, with the scent of her lavender soap tickling his nose. Merlin had assured him the bird could be back as soon as this morning with her reply. He was tempted to flip the hourglass and watch the sands fall until the bird returned.

Outside, a raucous noise kicked up, as though a flock of crows had been disturbed by something and was letting the world know about it. When they failed to quiet down, he pushed out of the chair and went to the window. In the still-empty courtyard, a score or so of crows was indeed circling about, wheeling and diving at something in their midst. Arthur could not tell what it was until a gray blur broke free of them at last, streaking up to the King's window, brushing his face with its wings at it flew into the room. Arthur nearly fell backward, but kept his feet and slammed the windows shut before the crows could follow.

"What the hell. . . ?" he blurted out, spinning about to find where the bird had gone, spotting it as it began its second or third circuit of the room before landing on the perch. It was his merlin, its wings still spread wide, beak open and ready to stab at him if he dared approach. Its eyes were wilder than usual. A dark stain spread across the bird's pale gray breast and drops of watery red blood spotted the floor below it. The crows had attacked it en masse. It seemed the falcon had just barely escaped them. A chill ran down Arthur's spine when he glanced at the window and found two of the dark birds perched on the ledge, silently staring through the glass. He flicked the curtains shut, unsure why they suddenly seemed so menacing.

Long minutes passed before the merlin calmed enough for Arthur to gingerly remove the note tied to one of its legs. The bleeding had stopped, and the bird set about preening itself, sending downy clumps of blood-crusted feathers to the floor. Outside, the crows started screeching again, setting his nerves at edge even as his heart leaped at the sight of Guinevere's handwriting. "It's not a warning," he thought as he watched the birds disappear into the distance. He could not say why the crows made him uneasy, or why the sight of the bloodied merlin felt like an omen. He was no oracle, to guess at the future. He was just a King with all the mundane abilities that went along with it. But it still felt like a warning.

 _"Please, God,_ " he sent the thought out to whatever god might be listening  _"Don't let it be an omen."_


End file.
